In Which Pippin Catches a Cold
by Pipkin Sweetgrass
Summary: While descending Caradhras, Pippin becomes quite ill, causing the members of the Fellowship to ponder past, present and future, a bit of a character study. My first fanfic.


In Which Pippin Catches a Cold

I'd love a beta reader this piece. While it is true that I do this purely for my own enjoyment, I'd like anything I submit to be it's best. This was my first fic ever, and reading it makes me cringe now, so if anyone cares to beta for me please let me know?   
If I'm going to bother to write, I'd like it to be the best piece I can make it. I can only do this with a little indulgence from you, Oh Faithful Reader! Thanks for your patience and indulgence, and remember, you, Oh Precious Reader, are vital to every story ever written, without you, what's the point of writing?

Summary: When the youngest member of the Fellowship becomes ill, his companions ponder past, present and future.

No, none of these characters are mine; I should be so talented as to be able to come up with such brilliance. I make no money from it and owe its entire existence to JRRT. He's a one and only. When God made him, He broke the mold.

PART 1

"Wake up, Pippin." Merry shook his cousin's shoulder. Pippin did not respond in the least.

"Pippin!" Merry said, his voice a little more stern this time, "Wake up! Breakfast is ready and we have to get ready to go."

Still there was no response. Merry made a sound that gave voice to the word "impatience". He cared for his cousin very much, but honestly, sometimes he got very tired of always having to look out for that rascal.

"Pippin! Really!" he shook Pippin, hard this time. He was answered by a low, soft moan. "Well are you going to get up and eat, or not? Really, Pippin, we don't have time for this lolling about."

Pippin dragged himself up. When he tried to swallow, his throat burned and ached as though he had swallowed a red-hot stone. He tried to eat, but this simply hurt the back of his throat too much.

"Pippin, are you well?" Merry said, his brows knitted in surprise mixed with concern; his cousin never refused food.

"Just a bit of a cold, Merry." Pippin replied. He would not complain; he knew he had barely been allowed to go on this mission, or whatever you may call it, and he meant to show everyone his going along was the right thing to do. He knew how Elrond had felt about the youngest of them. It wasn't easy, being the youngest. Everyone expected you to be a failure.

Well, he would show them. He knew that making people laugh was actually an easy way to get acceptance. It was very easy to do, and he had nothing against that. He liked to make people laugh. It was part of his nature, as much a part of him as the color of his eyes.

But he wanted so much more. There was a side to him that no one knew, even Merry. Perhaps Gandalf knew this side of Pippin, but no one else seemed to see it, or even want him to develop it. The seemed to be content to have him continue to be a foolish child. Pippin wanted, in other words, to grow up. After all, he would soon be of age.

He knew why Gandalf got so angry with him sometimes. It was because he expected better from him than he had thus far shown. He didn't know if he would ever measure up, but he meant to try. He would have to, his pranks left little impression but what was not good, when it came to Gandalf. It would be hard, though. He too often did things without quite thinking them through, simply because he wanted to do these things. He did these things to amuse himself or to amuse others. Frequently, there was no reason at all. He just felt to awful to remain in a thoughtful mood, however, and he decided to just stop thinking and try to keep up with the others.

His day began badly, and, as the day slowly passed, it just got worse. This awful day seemed to wear on forever and ever. He began to cough. He lagged behind and got scolded. The chill of Caradhras seemed to have crept into the very middle of him and set up housekeeping. The longer the day got, the worse he felt, yet he remained reticent.

By the end of the day, he felt positively ghastly. Well, at least they were leaving that terrible coldness behind them. The coldness at his core, however, seemed to have decided it liked the middle of him. He hoped it would be warm in Moria. He refused his evening meal altogether, and, drawing stares of wonderment from his companions, he went to his bedroll and immediately fell into a deep sleep. All was darkness, and voices sometimes crept into his fevered brain.

"Pippin, time to get up." Merry called, and shook his shoulder. He meant not to get angry with his friend this time. Pippin was not himself; something was not quite right. He looked at his companion and saw what looked like a sick hobbit. Pippin's color was high, but his lips looked ashen. There were dark circles under his closed eyes. Pippin was shivering.

"Pippin?" Merry felt Pippin's forehead. It was as hot as a firebrand. "What's this, then? Gandalf! Strider! Something is wrong with Pippin!"

He watched anxiously as the Wizard and the Ranger stooped before his cousin. Merry remained, kneeling over Pippin. "Wake up, Pippin, oh, do wake up, please?" Merry was patting Pippin's shoulder. The older hobbit was almost frantic. Pippin lay there like some dead thing; his chest rattling as his labored breathing rattled within him. "Pippin, you've got to be alright, your family will kill me if I let anything happen to you. Wake up, please, wake up!"

"I'm afraid this is out of your hands, this time, Meriadoc." The wizard's words were full of gravity as he spoke..

"His sister Pearl will flay me." Merry said, dismally. Gandalf looked at him, thinking Merry looked for the entire world as though those had been Pearl's actual words.

He didn't know that Pearl had said those exact words, and they had been spoken like a vow. "He better come back in one piece, Merry, or I swear I'll flay you myself." Merry swallowed hard. Pearl could have a temper, at times.

"We must get him further down, the air is still far too chill here." said Aragorn. "Here there are no curative plants to be found. Feverfew we need. Willow bark I already have."

The Ranger set about making medicines from what little he had in his baggage. Bark from the black cherry he had, and he added this to the willow-bark concoction.

It took all three of them, Merry, Aragorn and Gandalf, to bring Pippin around long enough to have him drink the stuff. His breathing was an awful rasp; the cough sounded as though it would shred his lungs and throat.

Aragorn wrapped him in a thick blanket. He carried Pippin himself until they came down from the heights of Caradhras, to country low enough to sustain the medicinals needed.

Around noon, they stopped again. Still the fever raged in him. He was again given the concoction. His eyes would open only slightly, and were glassy. Though the medicine was bitter as gall, Pippin did not protest or even grimace at the taste.

Even a complaint would have been a comfort, yet he made not a sound, but instantly closed his glassy eyes and fell back into that depth which was all too much like death.

The small chest labored and rattled. It was as though some evil liquid was boiling in the hobbit's burning lungs. His breathing sounded like the simmering of a noisome and fearful cauldron.

This time it was Boromir's turn to carry Pippin. Aragorn and Legolas would make wide sweeps along the trail, searching for feverfew. So far none was found. Aragorn cursed himself; he usually did not let his curatives dwindle to such a short supply.

As Boromir hefted the hobbit and they traversed on, Merry trotted beside the big Man. Boromir noted the worry on Merry's face. He understood all too well. Did he not have a younger brother to worry about?

He wondered what was going on in Merry's mind.

And Merry, well, Merry remembered…

Merry remembered how it all began; Pippin and himself. He had been eight years old when his cousin was born, and he didn't see why the adults would take on so over a little baby when there was a nice young lad such as himself around.

It was plain as day that a big eight-year-old boy such as himself had to be more fun than a helpless little baby. Merry couldn't help but wonder why relatives had come from some ways off just to see the addition to the Took family. Merry guessed it was because the little thing was the only son of the Thain. Some day he would be The Took.

Merry was a serious child sometimes. Adults found his precocious nature endearing. Though as able to find mischief as any hobbit lad, there were times when he seemed far older than his years. His sense of fairness and justice belied his young age yet never stopped him from being a typical hobbit boy.

At the time of the gathering, little Peregrin was no more than six months old. Merry didn't see why he had to be dragged along when there were so many more fun things to do than look at a baby.

The Smials was a bit crowded. Merry was bored so he decided to go exploring. The baby was sleeping, anyway.

He found a door opened just a crack, and decided to go in, seeing a few toys lying about. He crept into the room. It was a pleasant place. The window was open, and the sun was pouring through it like butterscotch.

Then Merry heard a tiny sound. Near the window in a cradle lay the object of all this commotion.

Merry crept closer. The boy knelt beside the cradle. There lay a remarkable thing, though he did not then know it. This would be his life-long friend, more brother than cousin.

Merry peeped over the edge of the cradle. He was regarded with a very large and deep green set of eyes, fringed with long, thick lashes. The tiny ears looked like little seashells. Little Peregrin looked at the bigger child and made a small, soft, happy sound.

Merry looked at the tiny feet. He reached in and gently took one in his own small hand. Someday, the soles would be tough as leather…but now…Merry thought they felt much like the tender, newly unfurled petals of spring flowers. The little feet would someday be covered with a thatch of woolly hair, but for now, it felt like the fur of a new kitten.

The baby smiled up at him.

"Well, hullo, there!" Merry said, softly. The little one laughed. Merry decided to pick the baby up. As he lifted the tiny thing, the baby reached out little fingers to explore the child's face.

Merry indulged him. He didn't even mind when the baby poked its tiny, dimpled finger up his nose. It made Merry laugh.

The baby smelled just like apples to Merry. And since that's what he smelled like, Merry decided then and there to call him "Pippin", meaning "little apple".

The adults had found him holding the tiny prize, and were amused that Merry, who had been so reluctant to see the baby, now seemed enchanted with the little thing.

Merry's parents asked , "Would you like to have one like that?"

Merry had paused and thought for a bit, then shook his head, "No".

"No, I don't think I want one like him, rather. No, I am sure I do not, I don't want one like this one; I fancy I want this one."

And so it had begun.

Merry, his tired mind worn with worry over this journey, his cousin Frodo, good old Sam, the Free Peoples of Middle Earth and now his dearest friend Pippin, wondered to himself...

"Did the Fellowship begin then, I wonder? Perhaps for we two."

PART 2

This Little One was sick, of a certainty.

He could tell from the first that Pippin had found a friend in him. A soldier's life was hard, and it had taken a bit to understand that this Peregrin, this Pippin, indeed all these halflings, these pheriannath, we not so good at hiding their feelings, as Men and Elves and even Dwarves were.

They were not so much like children as creatures closer to the very earth they seemed to draw all spiritual and physical life from. The matters of spirit and heart, these seemed much... closer, yes, closer, to the surface than any folk he had yet to encounter. Would that we could all be so honest, he thought.

And now, this Little One, not much more than a child, lay burning against him as if to burst into flames...yet oddly, about his chest and stomach, he seemed so cold, as though Carhradras itself had crept inside the small body.

Boromir could scarcely keep his mind from the plague that had so decimated his people. So few, he thought, so few left to defend the White City!

He wondered if such a plague might cause the extinction of these Little Folk. What a sorrow that would be! The world would be all the sadder and emptier for it...

Hobbits were a race new to him, but now he felt he couldn't abide the thought of a world without them. What a strange and wonderful people they were. Gandalf had described them as soft as butter, yet tough as old roots. Boromir wondered if this was indeed so, and hoped the wizard was right.

He wanted to see the Shire and meet her delightful people. He wondered what it would be like to spend time with the Little Ones of the Shire.

In his most secret heart, though he loved Gondor more even than his own life, he would have liked to visit the Shire and return only at his leisure, but he also knew this was not be.

Someday he must become Steward. So much of his life had been consumed with the study of military tactics and discipline that he had scarce had time to be a child at all. His younger brother had been spared some of this, and for that he was very grateful. The Lord Denethor scoffed at and greatly ignored Faramir. All the same to Boromir, since this spared his younger brother many a beating.

And Denethor, in his wroth, could indeed inflict a beating. All the well, he thought, it made war all the more familiar to him! At this thought, a dark laughter ran through his heart.

But still...to go to the Westmarch, to the Shire!

To go to the Shire! To see smiles on the faces of child, man and woman, and not the great sorrow and despair he was so familiar with in his beloved land!

To leave Gondor…at least for a while…to let Faramir take the Stewardship! Faramir, he knew, would be a greater Steward than he, Boromir, ever would.

More like the Kings of old was Faramir, while he, Boromir, had only desired to be a simple warrior and defender. And after that, a simple but happy husband and father.

The weight of Stewardship was a heavy one, and he feared he had not Faramir's patience and fairness and wisdom.

It was simply not in his nature. He was born to lead, yes, but to lead battalions, regiments, troops and guards. It was meat and bread to him, while Faramir needed far more than just meat and bread.

He had always been close to his brother, and now he hoped that Faramir was safe. Perhaps Faramir's deeds would sway the Lord Denethor…he rarely thought of his father as anything but the Lord Denethor, for he had not been so much a father as a taskmaster.

Less still a father to Faramir.

Boromir had taken it upon himself to shield his brother from the constant ire of the Lord Denethor.

He hoped that when the time came, Faramir could be there at his side, to guide him in all the ways he could. Between the two of them, Gondor would see Stewardship the likes of which had never been seen since the days of old.

There was so much more to Faramir than to he, himself. He was but a soldier, one who took to the sting of battle as a bird to the airs above the earth.

He would have liked to be like Faramir, but try as he might, he seemed unable to reign in his desire to be in action.

Faramir was amused at his brother's envy, but also touched by it. Boromir was more father to him than the man who was sire to them both.

Boromir took this task with earnest. He meant to someday be a father all could know as a good and fair father. Boromir felt he might make a good father. He loved his brother as though he were his own son..

Faramir was a great soldier in his own right, though, unlike his older brother, he was more skilled in covert action than actual battle.

Tactics and fighting, that's all I was ever good for, he thought. He took great pride in his deeds, yet he knew that he was nothing like his brother.

Boromir was distracted from this reverie by the heat that seemed to pour from the limp body he carried. By the Argonath! Was the Little One cooking in his own skin, like some ghastly orc dainty?

He felt his great heart pound in his chest, as though he were carrying not this Little One, this one he saw more daily as a small brother, a brother that grew more in his heart daily as his own Faramir...

He remembered his brother falling ill, once. This, too, had born a high fever, and the memory of this jolted him.

He had been terrified his brother, his dear Faramir, would die of the very plague that had taken so many to the Halls of the Fathers. That plague had passed, yet he still feared it. So many dead, so many corpses….

If the Lord Denethor had but known the fear in Boromir's heart, he would have been upbraided, called "womanish" and "weak". And so Boromir had closed off that part of himself.

He felt great anger at himself, and, yes, the Lord Denethor. That part of him rarely showed it's face anymore, and something in the big warrior's heart burned with shame and anger that it should be so.

How he wished his mother had lived - perhaps if she had, the Lord Denethor would have been father as well as Lord. He sometimes had felt like a whipped dog, wanting to please it's master, yet trembling with fear at it's master's voice. Shame and anger and self-reproach filled him when he thought of it.

Well, that would not happen to him! Something about the pheriannath seemed to wake a long-sleeping care, and he swore that when his time came, he would be Steward, yes, but in his house, sons and daughters would have time to laugh and play as well as learn.

He could recall only the most rare times a child of Gondor smiled, the adults smiled not at all.

These Little Folk, these halflings, now, they knew how to laugh! Especially this Little One that lay, burning with fever, on his shoulder.

Argonath, but the hobbit seemed hotter than ever!

Pippin stirred a bit, but weakly.

And then he spoke; "You shall not take it. Nay, do I say you shall not, though it be within the span of a hair's breadth, shall you not. He shall flee as a fox before the wolf, though no wolf shall you be, but only in seeming. Keep close your honor, and all shall be put aright..."

Boromir halted so suddenly he nearly tripped over his own feet.

"Aragorn! Legolas! Gandalf!" he called, surprised by the panic in his voice, he, Boromir, who had faced death himself so many times.

He carefully lay Pippin down and knelt before him as though his body were a shelter with which to keep out all inclement weather. 'Poor little wretched thing,' thought Boromir. Pippin looked near death to Boromir.

Before he even thought, he called, "Brother!" He shook his head, then called "Pippin! Pippin! Why say you these things?" Pippin's words had made Boromir's blood feel like ice…almost as if the sickness in Pippin wanted to reach inside Boromir and freeze his insides. It made Boromir shudder, as though he might be ill, himself. He nearly retched.

"Gandalf! Aragorn! Come now, and quickly! He's hotter now than he was." said the soldier, "and now he talks - it was not like himself. He sounded like a madman, or, or - a soothsayer!" Boromir felt a shudder run through his body again, followed by an even deeper chill than before.

Aragorn examined the burning little body. "We must stop. We must take time for a proper search for feverfew."

"I know nothing of these things," said Boromir in a low voice. Aragorn sensed something in the way the words were spoken.

Could this be regret? Worry or fear, perhaps? Some long-ago memory comes to trouble the Son of Gondor? No matter, now. There would be time to ponder this later. For now Pippin needed medicine, and badly.

"Gimli!" called Aragorn, 'Take Merry with you and look for feverfew. If you don't know what it looks like, Merry will tell you. Hobbits know their herbs. Legolas, Sam, you two go together. Though I'm sure you both are familiar with the plant, four eyes are better than two are. Frodo, I think, should remain here with Gandalf and Boromir. Should any mischief come, Frodo shall not be alone. Here, at least, he will be well guarded by Gandalf and Boromir. I've got to look for medicinal herbs. Keep your ears and eyes sharp. The Enemy may show himself even here."

Gandalf watched Boromir rip a wide strip from his own shirt, wet it, and apply it to Pippin's forehead and temples. The shirt, Gandalf knew, had been costly, and knew that Boromir's willingness to do such a thing showed some mark of character. He also noted the warrior - Steward's face was pale, his brow furrowed with care.

His eyes seemed to brim, yet, being a soldier, he held his grief in check. The hobbit's fever was so high that in moments, steam began to rise from the wet cloth. Boromir took it off and wet it yet again. The wizard noted the soldier's hands trembled as they re-applied the cooling cloth.

Pippin murmured, though the words were impossible to catch. He shook with almost a palsy. Gandalf feared for Pippin, though his heart told him all would be well. Still, he had known this particular little fellow since he was a small hobbit-child and he hoped this would soon pass.

As if Boromir had read Gandalf's heart, he asked the wizard, "Have you known him very long?"

"Yes, since he was indeed very small." answered Gandalf. The wizard chuckled half to himself. "And such a child he was! It is a small wonder his father could catch him long enough to learn his name!"

Boromir smiled at this last statement. "I can well believe that. For all his mischief, he seems a bright enough little fellow. In some respects, he reminds me of Faramir. He wants to know everything, and that in less than an hour."

Gandalf gave a small laugh. "Yes, in that respect he is much like your brother, but there are marked differences as well."

"How so?"

"Unlike your brother, Pippin cannot be left with too much time on his hands, else those hands, and the head that commands them, will find some employ that is less, shall I say, than noble."

"Come, now, he cannot have been as bad as all that!" said Boromir, one corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile.

"Cannot? Cannot? Tell me, have you ever tried to remove green dye from your hair?" replied Gandalf, with that peculiar expression of face known as 'pique'. "Did you not witness firsthand the results of an idle-minded Pippin? Who but Pippin would put soot in the boots of the heir of Isildur? The fact that Aragorn took it with such good humor bodes well for the throne. A lesser man might have dealt with him very harshly indeed."

Boromir laughed heartily. "Green hair, eh? Who was the victim of this vile deed?"

"His sister, Pearl. All of his sisters suffered at his hands. It is a wonder they did not drown him. Yet, still, they adore their brother. I pity the creature who ever deigns to harm him. The Took sisters can be like a pack of small but dedicated wolves, when it comes to their only brother." the wizard answered, trying not to laugh. "Oh, make no mistake, yes, he is sharper of wit than is apparent, at times. In fact, it's his wit that commands that nose for trouble. A dullard would never think of so many ways in which to wreak havoc."

"This, then, is why you are so angered with him when he's in his mischief?"

"Oh, yes." said Gandalf, nodding his head. "He is both worthy and capable of better. Keep half an eye on these hobbits, Boromir. As much as even I know about them, they can surprise you! Especially any of them related to the Tooks. It is said that long ago, one of the Tooks took a Faerie wife. Some say this is nonsense, but I do wonder! There is something about the Tooks that is not entirely hobbit-like"

"I wonder," mused Boromir, "how came it that they are so unknown to so many?"

"They are a quiet people, and love most peace and quiet. They do not delight in glory, unless it is the glory of watching something grow, or in the simpler glory of preparing and sharing a meal, a drink, or a good smoke. Were their deeds great deeds, be sure they would be famous! I am quite happy for their simple ways, for were they to catch the eye of some, I'm sure their lands would be forfeit, though at greater cost than any think. The Brandybucks and Tooks are not to be underestimated."

Boromir took the cloth from Pippin's forehead and re-wet it, then placed it back on the burning brow. The warrior - Steward had a very worried look on his face. "Will he live, do you think?" asked Boromir.

"I think he shall." answered Gandalf, 'These hobbits have remarkable power to recover. Still, we must make haste in this regard, for you can be sure He will not rest."

'Yes', thought Boromir, 'The Enemy. Now that one would have wasted no time on a sick underling. Indeed, He may have made orc's meat of him.'

PART 3

Frodo sat quietly, listening to the two Big Folk talk about them as though he were not there. This may have angered some, but Frodo found it amusing. Also amusing, and quite a surprise to Frodo, was the seeming grief that Lord Boromir seemed so heavily born down with. 'Charm of the Tooks,' he thought, 'and are not all in the Shire familiar with it?'

He recalled The Green Dye Incident, as all Tookborough and Brandy Hall had come to call it. Frodo had been sure Pearl would skin Pippin alive. He had rarely seen any hobbit lass so angry as when Pearl had run into her mother's chambers, crying "Mother!" as though chased by goblins.

"What's he done now?" asked Eglantine. As Pippin's mother, she didn't have to qualify this question with a name, she knew perfectly well who 'he' was, as did they all. She turned to look at her daughter and beheld a lovely hobbit lass with bright green hair.

Like her errant son, Eglantine had a great sense of humor, and couldn't suppress her laughter. This had made Pearl even angrier.

"Oh my! Oh dear!" she exclaimed, and a slow smile spread across her unwilling face. "Well, darling, at least it matches your eyes!" Eglantine tried to hold her laughter, but failed. She and Pippin even had the same laugh. This did nothing but make Pearl madder still.

Pearl had gone to her father expecting more sympathy than Eglantine had shown. Paladin Took, however, had been as amused as his wife had. Pearl's fury had increased ten-fold.

The result was that Pippin had been sent to visit Bilbo Baggins and his ward, Frodo. It was that, or sit idly by as the situation escalated.

It was then that Frodo had come to know Pippin a little better. All too well, in fact. The youngster seemed to live for the pleasure of making the veins in one's head stand out.

Frodo had his hands full keeping the little one out of trouble, and only began to have some measure of success when Merry was sent for. For whatever reason, when Merry was around, Pippin seemed to be, while not exactly perfect, a little better.

It had been during this time that the band of hobbits known as Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin had been forged. There was some difference in ages, but this seemed to matter not at all to any of them. They had mostly stayed out of trouble, save the occasional raid on Maggot's fields and the purloining of the occasional apple.

Bilbo had taught them to read and write. Pippin, though hard put to concentrate on his lessons, had proved a quick study, perhaps too quick. He surprised everyone by helping Sam, seeming to think that Sam, above all, needed to learn more than the others did. Astute Pippin knew that Sam's station in life would only be changed with a proper grasp of letters and numbers.

Pippin had liked Sam from the first. He admired Sam's grounded nature, and thought he should be a bit more like Sam, but he seemed to be unable to emulate the older hobbit. Pippin might try to convince Sam to do something he should do for himself, but he never actually ordered Sam around.

The Gaffer had always delighted in the pranks of the youngest of the four, and did nothing to curb the young Took's sense of mischief. The old fellow enjoyed the sauce Pippin gave all and sundry.

'Was this, then,' Frodo thought, 'when our own Fellowship began?'

The four of them loved to hear Bilbo's tales told before the fireplace. Countless times had Bilbo told them his stories, yet they never seemed to tire of them.

"A story, Uncle Bilbo, a story!" they would plead. Bilbo liked being called "uncle", though in actuality he was a cousin. He found that he obtained great joy in recounting his adventures, and not for the first time, he thought, he should commit them to paper.

For now, though, he would pass the story on by word of mouth, as the little hobbits seemed to find immense pleasure in hearing them. They always gawked and gasped in all the right places. Pippin seemed to fear the trolls more than the rest for some reason, and Bilbo took his own delight in the mischief of frightening little Pippin. He never took it too far, of course but the look of rapt attention on the little face made it too tempting to resist.

Frodo, for his part, loved every detail of the entire adventure. He thought, as he had countless times now, of how Bilbo found the ring.

The Ring.

At times, the Ring felt heavy, far heavier than it ought. Frodo seemed to be unable to keep his hands from wandering to the perfect circle of gold. It was indeed a thing of simple beauty, he thought. Suddenly he had an urge to put the Ring on and slip away, go back to the Shire...

Suddenly Pippin sat up. His eyes opened, and seemed clear and aware.

He looked directly at Frodo.

"Go. You should go. Better still, bring it to me." The words were coming from Pippin's mouth, but the voice was all wrong. Even worse was the laughter. This was not the sweet and carefree laughter they were so familiar with.

It sounded cruel and it churned with hatred and envy. Pippin's lungs bubbled frightfully. He fell back with a long, rattling exhalation.

That was when Pippin convulsed. The seizure was short, but quite violent. Then there was silence. Much too much silence, in fact.

"He's stopped breathing!" Boromir rasped. He seized Pippin and shook him. Boromir's own face had grown pale, and now, willingly or no, a single tear coursed down his weatherbeaten and war-hardened face. "Breathe!" commanded the Captain, shaking Pippin again, this time a little harder. "Breath, soldier!" Boromir's face seemed to be going blank. "Wake, brother, wake! Why fall you into this darkness? Wake, wake!"

Still, no tide of air moved within those still channels of Pippin's lungs. He was turning grey.

And Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain of the White Tower and seasoned warrior, began to weep in earnest.

"He...he has died!" He lifted Pippin in those bear-like arms and embraced him. He did not even hear himself calling softly, "Little brother, little brother..."

PART 4

Gandalf leapt up. He grasped the hobbit about the waist and gave his chest a violent blow. When this failed, he leant Pippin over one arm, like a worn cloak, and thumped the un-breathing back so hard Frodo feared Pippin's back would break.

It didn't break, though. A large mass of thick, dark effluvia was projected from Pippin's mouth. With a raw, sawing sound, his breath came back. His color improved, though he did not wake.

The three of them gave a sigh of relief, as though in chorus. They might have been amused if they knew that each had thought they did indeed sound like a chorus, but there was no way any of the three could have known this. It was enough that Gandalf had rescued Pippin.

As for Boromir, he leant over the small form and took the small hand in his own. 'It is such a little hand,' he thought, 'it's swallowed by my own...oh, Overheaven, do not take this little one, this small brother from me, not just yet...'

The alarm had driven out the memory of Pippin's behavior prior to his seizure. Later, they would recall this incident and discuss it, but by then too much was going on to deliberate in depth this ghastly aside.

Brush rattled and snapped as some of the searchers returned. They had found feverfew and other medicinals as well.

Gimli in particular was pleased to present a yellow, powdery mineral. He sternly warned that though it was a mineral, it was also a powerful curative, and must be used sparingly.

"We dwarves," he remarked, "have our own curatives, though we are tough as granite. Even a dwarf may fall ill. It is a powerful medicine. The less used," Gimli warned, "the less the danger. We dwarves delve for more than gold, silver, iron and mithril, and this is one of the things we delve for. Only by great grace did I come across it. It is usually much more difficult to find, and fate has smiled upon us this day."

The remaining searchers returned, each bearing medicinal roots and herbs. Sam had found some roots known for their curative powers. It was known in the Shire as Death's Conqueror, though he did not know its proper name. He reflected that it was a good thing his Old Gaffer had such a good memory and passed his "learnin'", as he called it, to his steadfast son.

Gandalf recounted the tale of Pippin's close call. Sam began to be seriously worried. He noted that Frodo looked particularly pale and shaken. He took his job of seeing to Mr. Frodo as an honor as well as a duty. Sam would not have thought himself a soldier, but in his devotion to duty, he was as much a soldier as the bravest and most loyal trooper.

Aragorn returned bearing many of the same medicinals as the rest, but also bearing the plant and root of the Nightshade. He explained that when given in minute amounts, it was a wonderful curative. Handled carelessly, it was a deadly poison. This worried Sam to no end, but he felt it was not his place to cast doubt on Aragorn.

Sam watched silently as Aragorn boiled water to prepare both concoction and decoction. The oily juices of some of the plants that had been gathered smelled awful, but he assured the others that he was well aware of what he was doing. As a Ranger, he had been forced to know how to treat himself and any he came across in need of medicine. In fact, his healing skills were held in high regard, though he would never make such a boast. There was no conceit in this self-awareness, but a certain surety and a confidence.

Sam hoped Pippin would recover, and that right soon. There were many hobbits that would never let him forget the class he'd sprung from; Merry and Pippin were not counted among them, though they were aware that Sam certainly did not forget it.

And as for Frodo, well, these things seemed to matter little, if any at all, to him. Somehow Mr. Frodo seemed to be above such mediocrity, though Sam would not have used the term.

Sam recalled the days when Pippin had been under his and Frodo's care. He thought of his Rosie, and how he would someday like to father as many little hobbits as he could feed. He often amused himself with thinking what each one would look like or be named. He sometimes even thought about what it would be like to be a grandfather. He hoped any child or grandchild would be not quite the challenge Pippin had been, but thought also that it shouldn't be such a bad thing if this should come to pass, after all. And then he thought, suppose I have children, and Pippin has children, and they marry?

He found the thought both alarming as well as charming. "That rhymes," he thought, "mayhap I could make a poem for Pippin with 'charming' and 'alarming' in it."

Sam thought little of his poetic talents, though he was much better at it than he thought. Humble, grounded Sam was not the type to sing his own praises.

Sam missed his Rosie terribly, though he had been too shy to let his feelings for her show. 'If we live through this, and I expect we will, I will tell her.' He thought.

He recalled how Pippin had been so patient in helping Sam with his lessons in letters and numbers. Even though he had been quite taken aback with Pippin's seriousness in helping him learn, he could also recall that even in this, Pippin had his mischievous side.

Sam smiled to himself. He recalled Pippin making him write over and over again, "the sixth sweet sick swain's sixth sweet sheep is sick".

Only Pippin could have devised such a thing. Sam began to weep. 'Poor little Pippin,' he thought, 'How I wish this had not happened!'

Sam watched as Aragorn medicated the sick hobbit, forcing small amounts of liquid into Pippin's mouth, then patiently waiting for it to trickle down his throat. Not for the first time did Sam regret his initial impression of Aragorn. Here was one of the Big Folk that Sam felt was truly worthy, worthier than anyone he had ever met. Suddenly his tears dried, as quickly as they had come. 'Trust Stider,' he thought, 'he'll know what to do.' Sam had begun to understand fully what the word 'fellowship' meant.

PART 5

Aragorn was busy with making a poultice. It smelled awful, but he knew the good of it. He hadn't wanted to build such a big fire, but felt also that this was a risk that must be taken. Time after time, he applied a hot poultice to the chest and back of the ailing hobbit. Pippin had begun to cough more, producing more of the thick, black effluvia than seemed possible.

This was no ordinary cold.

Legolas was ever at his side to offer help in any way he could. He had mentioned to Aragorn that this was more than a common illness, and Gandalf had agreed.

It was true that they had come down from the mountain, but it seemed that Caradhras itself had decided to strike out at them, to take the life of the one, single spirit that was able to lift his fellow spirits.

Not for nothing was Caradhras called Caradhras the Cruel.

Aragorn set his jaw. He would not let the mountain have its cruel way with this innocent. He knew he was in for a fight for the very life of the young one, and he meant to come out of this victorious.

Pippin would not be taken.

Some may have scoffed at his committment, but deep in his heart he knew that this Little One had a part to play that not even the wisest might guess.

The hobbit sometimes spoke from the deeps of his sickness. Much could not be made out, but once, he had heard the words as clearly as if they were the sounding of a great trumpet: "Tell Saruman this dainty is not for him. Just say that!"

Gandalf's face seemed to harden. He and Aragorn exchanged glances that spoke as well as any words.

As for Legolas, he often changed the cooling cloth on the fevered brow; Giving Boromir a welcome relief from a grief that seemed deeper than the small amount of time the warrior had known this hobbit child. They all seemed like children to Legolas.

He sang healing songs that Aragorn knew and had heard many times. Often, he would stoop and speak softly to the hobbit in evlish words so soft none could hear. Of all the fellowship, Legolas and Gandalf seemed most sure that Pippin would recover. Aragorn was not so much sure as determined.

Boromir seemed to be most especially worried. This was not unusual. Aragorn and Gandalf had known him for some time and knew Boromir was one of those people who worried about everything. Had there been nothing at all to worry about, Boromir would have looked for something anyway. This is what happens to a people who must deal year after long year with so much sorrow and death. These trials eventually grind them down, and grief, worry and even despair becomes all too common.

Aragorn had noted that the big warrior had been drawn into friendship with both Merry and Pippin. He watched over them as a parent would watch over his young, or, more accurately, an older brother watched over a younger one. He could see Merry and Boromir huddled together, their heads close together, and knew that they were a comfort to one another.

Poor Merry was quite distraught. Merry could be as jolly as the next hobbit, but sometimes his demeanor was nothing like most young hobbits. He took responsibility and accountability to heart. He was so much in the habit of watching over his younger cousin that it was quite hard on him that he was helpless to do very much now. Somber, serious Merry seemed to be a bit lost without his cousin's company.

During the night, Pippin had mumbled, "Elves! What have they got to mope so about? They get to live forever."

Legolas had been quite amused at this. Death was so much a stranger to elves that it was odd to think of a hobbit dying. Legolas wondered, 'what happens to hobbits after they die? Are they just gone, as though they had never been?' No, he did not think so. He thought that, like men and dwarves, something of them goes on. Something abides.

As for Gimli, he, too, had known this hobbit, through his relatives for many years. This was the kinsman of Bilbo Baggins , and Gimli's father had brought the tiny babe and the older Merry toys that were apparently quite magical of make.

These he had always brought at Yule-time, that strange holiday the hobbits seemed to so love. His father had taken the gifts personally to them, often dandling the furry-footed little scoundrels on his knee, until his age and his obligations made it impossible. By then, the two had outgrown toys, and had found far more fun (and alarming!) pastimes to occupy their minds.

Gimli was not one to show his feelings easily until they became unbearable, and so he kept his worries to himself. The others, however, could not help but hear his sad sighs and worrisome grumblings. These sounds spoke, as words could not. Gimli reflected, 'perhaps the fellowship began that long ago time, when my kin showed up at Bag End, looking for a burglar.' More sighs and grumblings followed this thought.

Legolas began to wonder if all he had heard of dwarves was as he had thought.

Time crawled by for all of them, and it seemed these hours took days, sometimes weeks.

Around midnight, the fever began to break. A sour sweat dampened Pippin's clothing. Merry had brought some of his own clothing to change Pippin into, to keep him dry.

The clothing was a bit big for Pippin, but his own, now wet and stinking of sickness, needed changing and washing. Aragorn watched, with some amusement, as Boromir, Merry and Gimli washed the sick hobbit's clothes and lay them near the fire to dry.

As his friends had undressed Pippin, his eyes had opened just a slit and fastened on Merry's face. A little smile had fled across the pale face, and Pippin had said, "My dear ass, what are you about now? If it's a smoke you want, look in your own things!"

Merry had smiled back, and with Merry's single word, "Rest," Pippin had again closed his eyes and fallen back into that deep slumber.

There was no sleep for anyone that night, save only for the ill one. As the hours passed, his color improved and his breathing had eased. The sleep he slept now was different; the sleep the healing. In the small hours before dawn, some of them had been able to drowse a bit, feeling that the worst was over.

Merry was not one of these. Aragorn had seen the poor fellow turn away, noting tears of relief traversing down Merry's cheeks.

As the hours passed, Pippin seemed to be resting well and breathing much more easily. It was around dawn, when their worried heads were nodding with exhaustion that the small voice broke the silence.

"What's for breakfast? I'm starving. I feel I could eat even an orc." Pippin had raised himself on one weak elbow.

Aragorn laughed. He felt such relief!

Caradhras had been defeated!

Pippin would recover, and in the way of his people, it would be a swift recovery. It was true that he may be a bit weak and shaky for a few days, but the worst was over with now.

Pippin, for his part, was aware enough to notice that Aragorn had for a few moments seemed a different Man, no longer so serious and sober, but as light-hearted as a summer's day.

That morning Sam had prepared an especially good and copious breakfast. Pippin had eaten the last crumb on his plate, and looked as if he could have eaten more. He was weak, still, but now it was plain that the hobbit would soon be himself.

Boromir had a hard time not looking worriedly at Pippin. He seemed to heave a sigh now and again, as though one worn with much labor and sorrow. He only half-ate his meal, and, as he walked by Pippin, he handed him his dish. Boromir had barely touched his food.

One by one, each member of the Fellowship walked by his sickbed, and as they passed it, they would take from their own plate a small offering of their own food and place it on Pippin's dish. When he had at last finished eating and seemed quite content and full, an impish grin spread across his face.

"Perhaps I should get sick more often," said the irrepressible Took. He lay down again and slept the sleep of one who has labored long and hard. He hadn't been this tired since last harvest-time. He was sore all over, as well.

They would go no further that day, but remain where they were. This day was spent observing the recovering invalid.

Pippin had wanted a bath badly, so water had been heated and he washed himself thoroughly, ridding himself of the last scent of both illness and curative. He still coughed occasionally, but he was most definitely on the mend.

It was a fine, clear day, and unusually bright and sunny for that time of year. The general spirit of the day was one of relief and celebration.

The following day, they must move on, whether they will or no. Pippin was still sore and tired, but felt now that he could keep up with the others, and was even eager to be on the way. He and Merry spent their time helping each other pack their things up, laughing and joking as though nothing at all had passed. Such are the ways of hobbits: they do not make or say much of bad times, lest they say or make too much.

Preparations were made, Bill was fully loaded down, and even that pony seemed to feel happier than was wont.

"Come on, Merry, what are you waiting for, an invitation?" Pippin said, elbowing Merry in his ribs. Merry laughed and caught up with his cousin. He reflected that he'd spent much of his life "catching up" with Pippin. It was worth the effort, though.

As they stood to tread on, Boromir pulled on his gloves. Something inside them was cold, wet, and very nasty. He pulled his hand out of the glove. It had been packed with wet pipeweed.

He couldn't feel angry at this prank, though, but instead seemed to feel a great deal of relief and comfort. He ruffled Pippin's hair; surprising the hobbit completely and smearing wet tobacco on Pippin's head.

"Never change, Peregrin Took!" the big Man said, wagging a finger at him, as if it were a warning.

Pippin shook his head in an emphatic 'no', shaking the wet tobacco from his hair. "Me? Never!" Pippin replied, but deep in his heart, he knew this was not true. He knew he had changed, at least a little. He knew that before this was all done, he would be changed even more.

"Let's go." He said with a grin, giving the Man a little kick.

Boromir responded by lifting Pippin up for a ride on one broad shoulder. 'Perhaps', he thought, 'a brother may not be born of the same house, or the same parents...'

"All right, Master Took. Let's go."

Myth, Lay or Legend, is it so?

Epic or Faery-tale, who can show?

But that's all I'll tell you,

For that's all I know.

Pipkin Sweetgrass

finis


End file.
